


Closed Mouths Don't Get Fed

by Sea_Dukes_Assistant



Category: British Royalty RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 13:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sea_Dukes_Assistant/pseuds/Sea_Dukes_Assistant
Summary: As part of #WorkingForSeaDuke, I was given a prompt in which I finally admit to Prince Philip that I am, indeed, DTF.  This is the 4 part lead-up to what has become known as #TheDTFChronicles.





	1. Admissions Were Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the prompt that started the journey down this particular wormhole:
> 
> "After a long night of playing host to people he can't stand on the insistence of the Misses, The Sea Duke returns to his room with you in tow to start taking off layers of medals and ribbons. Bored from an evening of dull conversation and frustrated by his wife's taking to bed early, you listen as the Duke gripes under his breath about the night's events. As you are turned around arranging his medals back in their tray the Duke let's out a deep sigh, followed by "And to top it off, no sex!"

As accustomed as I am to tuning out officers when they’re literally talking about nothing (especially weekend liberty briefs), I’d always been unsuccessful in blocking out Sea Duke’s tirades, mostly because they are so goddamn funny, but also because he often says what I’ve been thinking but often don’t have the freedom to say. Most of the effort goes into keeping a straight face, lest he start in on me. I’d like to think he wouldn’t, but even I never really know with this temper sometimes. It’s especially difficult when I’m trying to sort his hardware in the appropriate order of precedence, because fuck me sideways I’m trying to remember how they go but he has a lot more than I will ever hope to have, plus I’d had some beer. I was doing rather well, until I hear him mention he won’t be getting any this evening, which nearly results in me almost dropping a medal onto the floor.

I can feel the need to restart my heart, and I inwardly begin to panic.

“Oh shit,” I think to myself, “How do I handle this what is the procedure THIS IS NOT IN THE TECH PUB.” I’m mentally screaming at myself until the rational part of my brain kicks in. “Shut up you survived a car you can handle this. Just be confident and say it with your chest. You’re a goddamn sailor in the US Navy.”

“That…is unfortunate, sir,” I say. I’m trying to keep calm but suddenly my pants are becoming more uncomfortable. I’m used to dealing with radar systems that don’t want to work. I am NOT familiar with dealing with my not-entirely-100% straight-feels towards anyone, especially when the chance of rejection is astronomically high and they are officers and also goddamn royalty. “But,” I continue, concentrating hard on the words coming out of my mouth lest I slur (#braintraumaproblems), “I’m not entirely sure blue balls are a thing you’ll have to deal with.” I turn back around to face him, trying to discreetly hide the one thing that will inevitably betray me.

“I’m not daft you know, I’ve bloody wanked on the ship of course that’s an option don’t be stupid,” he retorts, a bit annoyed with me.

“That’s not really what I was getting at, sir,” I reply, in more of a tongue-in-cheek manner than I wanted.

“Well speak up then, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well the way I see it,” I begin, taking a deep breath before continuing, “you could either do it yourself or…” another deep breath,” have some assistance.” Before I realize what the fuck I’m doing, my right arm makes the “jerk off” motion. I am low-key mortified, but hide this well, and after what feels like 5 hours my confidence kicks in. “I only say that because one, I‘ve been single now for a few years; two, I’ve had a few; and three, I’m kinda DTF myself if I’m honest,” I say, counting each point with my fingers.

Sea Duke cocks his head a bit and squints at me, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head as the realization of what I said hits him, and when it does, he scoffs a little, though I can tell it’s mostly in amusement. “You’ve already been promoted you don’t need to—“

“Sir respectfully I would polish that sword like I’m about to hit high-year tenure.” Well shit…done dug the hole might as well throw the shovel away and wait to be buried in it.


	2. Answers Are Given

At first, I only got a blank stare in response to my sudden and mostly anxiety driven admission, and I braced myself for the rebuke I thought for sure I was going to receive. Instead, I was graced with one of His Royal BAMFnesss cocky smirks; the one he does when he knows he’s right or finally gotten the truth out of someone. I’ve seen it a million times in regards to the staff, and from officers during my time onboard ship. 

“Goddamn it sir,” I think to myself, “can you not; my situation is already awkward I don’t need help in that department.”

“It’s interesting,” he begins as he slowly walks toward me, his hands behind his back and that smirk still on his face, “because I’d wondered just how long it would take to get that out of you.” At this point he was in my space bubble, and I felt my heartbeat increase dramatically and tried to fight the “fight or flight” instinct that had taken over. My right hand clenches into a tight fist, a side effect of my brain injury plus anxiety.

I swallow hard, and revert to my instinctual blank stare, focusing on a point behind him in space somewhere. It was something I’d always been good at, and a skill that got me through bootcamp. It was almost a survival technique, in which I could shut off emotion and go purely on “programming.” For a man who has a “superior” language ability, I had no fucking clue what to say, and wondered if even the usual enlisted statement of “Apologies sir, I have no excuse,” was even appropriate at this point…or if I could even get the words out.

Sea Duke leans in, to the point where he’s almost whispering in my ear. “So,” he starts, his voice having dropped to a level even I don’t recognize as he grabs my right hand, unclenching the fist I had formed with a surprising amount of gentleness, and places it on his weaponry, which is not exactly dormant, I might add. “You want a taste? Hmm? “

I’m fairly certain my heart has stopped at this point, because the only reaction I can manage is more inward screaming and my eyeballs getting as big as baseballs. “This is it, this is how it ends. I go into cardiac arrest because of another man. Neptune be with me,” I think as I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. In hindsight I realize perhaps I should have had a shot or two before dinner. To make it worse, I’m not even sure if he’s doing this to fuck with me or if he’s actually ok with this, and it is doin’ a number on my already wrecked brain…literal short circuit right now.

After anther (what feels like) 5 hours, I manage another deep breath and a nod in affirmation.

“Then get on your knees,” he commands.


	3. The Morning After

Slowly, I felt myself regaining consciousness. After a few minutes, one eyeball opened, the other following suite, and I began becoming aware of my surroundings.

I had in fact made my way back to my room, something which amazed me since I have trouble navigating around the place when I’m sober. I sigh and rubbed my face, trying to wake myself up and get the sleep crust out of my eyes. Let’s see, what did I do last night? I remember the state dinner, something which made me feel horribly out of place and was a rather surreal experience. I remember poking at my dinner and suddenly wishing for ship food, because I couldn’t even pronounce the dish I was served, let alone knew what it was made of. I remember having a few pints and listening to Sir ranting about blue balls — oh shit. Oh god. No…no I didn’t…did I? I fling the cover ups and am relieved to find I’m not naked. I relax again, and then realize I have an unusually salty taste in my mouth. Weird…beer isn’t salty…neither was the food I ate. What is going on why does it taste like — suddenly, it clicks. My eyes go wide, and I cover my now agape mouth in utter disbelief and horror at myself. No…oh shit no I didn’t. I did. I bolt upright at my sudden realization.

I could feel panic set in, and my thoughts race as I shower. How do I explain this? Would he demand one? Am I gonna face any discipline over this? DOES ANYONE KNOW? WILL HE BE PISSED AT ME AND GET RID OF ME? I try to remain calm, but honestly it’s rather difficult when you’re just done something you never thought you’d do, nor thought he’d do either.

I dry off and put on clean skivvies, the return to the bathroom to shave. “Relax,” I tell myself as I make a nice Barbasol beard, “if he wasn’t ok with it he would NOT have offered. He did. He never said to quit. He didn’t freak out at it ‘being gay.’” My confidence slowly returns as the razor glides across my face. I rinse the excess cream off and stare at the mirror. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was consensual. You did nothing wrong. Handle today like a boss and try not to be awkward,” I commanded myself.

I get dressed, get my hairs lookin’ fly as fuck, and proceed to my office. I prepare my “stiff upper lip” should Sir be in his office when I pass, but he isn’t, and I sigh in relief. I flick the mast on the model ship, and enter my small (relatively speaking) part of the British Empire. I pour some coffee into my already “seasoned” mug (beaker, apparently it’s called here), trying to resist putting some whisky in for good measure, and turn the laptop on. “Today fixin’ to be awkward af,” I say as I take the first sip.


	4. Reconciliation

As I sit drinking my coffee, reading the day’s news like a proper grown ass man, I contemplate how I’ll be able to cope with what I did last night. Mind you, it’s not shame, rather more like disbelief that it actually happened and there wasn’t any negative fallout (so far).

“Fuck it,” I say to myself, “I’m spiking this bitch.”

I get up and retrieve the bottle of Jack Daniels I have stashed for emergencies, and am just about to pour some into my coffee, when I no shit feel a smack on my ass.

“DA FUK DAT IS???” I yelp, nearly spilling my whisky.

I whirl around ready to smack a ho, except it’s Sir that I find myself face-to-face with. And goddammit he’s smirking again.

“You need to relax,” he says.

“No what I need to do is fucking restart my heart!” I exclaim, grabbing my shirt and leaning against my desk.

Sir snickers. “So,” he begins, still smirking at me, “had you done that before?”

It takes me a minute to realize what he’s talking about. “No,” I reply, staring a hole intensely at the floor. 

“Interesting. Because I think my wife could learn a thing or two from you.”

My eyeballs go wide again, and I fumble for my whisky bottle and take a generous swig, because I truly see my life flashing before my eyes at this point and I’ll be damned if I die sober. Sir seems at least mildly amused at having got me off-guard, either that or he’s surprised a person’s face could get the shade of red mine was.

“So, I take it you’re not upset then?” I ask, somewhat nervously.

He squints at me. “Why would I be? “

“Well, I can think of one big reason right away…” I hint.

“Because you’re a man? “

I nod.

“Bloody hell if that was the case I’d have told you to fuck off.”

I nod again, realizing he’s right, and I let out a sigh of relief. He goes to stand next to me, something I think was his way of trying to calm me down. With my anxiety spiking the way it does these days, I find a strange amount of comfort being near him. What’s nice about that is I didn’t have to explain it; he just seems to know.

“Did you have breakfast.” True to officer nature, this was more of a demand than a question, though there was a tone of concern in his voice.

“No,” I say quietly, “too nervous to eat.”

Sir walks out into the hallway and summons a page. He gives the page an order, probably to have someone bring up food, and reclaims his spot beside me.

“We have to work on your endurance though.” 

“I am sir, but it takes time. My stride isn’t normal yet.”

“No not that kind of endurance. As long as it took for you to admit something I figured out in a month, it took maybe 5 minutes for you to finish.”

I feel my face get insanely hot and fight the urge to go hide in my greatcoat nest.

“Are you going to finish that?” Sir points at my coffee.

I hand him the mug. “I can make more.”

He takes my mug and finishes the coffee in it. “Like I said,” he says, setting the mug down, “you need to relax. Although admittedly, you’re a lot more calm than my wife was on our wedding night…hell, if I can get her past that, you should be no problem.”


End file.
